


Untitled

by sshomoerotica



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshomoerotica/pseuds/sshomoerotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You eat dinner together, sometimes. These are not dates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> i've not yet watched season 3 so this takes place nebulously in the ether between 1 and the middle of 2

 

You eat dinner together, sometimes. These are not dates - Scott goes out with Allison and you feel obligated to hang out with Stiles, sometimes, to make sure he isn’t lonely. You talk Pack. Stiles talks school. He rambles and you let it wash over you, absorbing more than you mean to. Tonight he shoves his face with burger and you pick half-heartedly at fries. Tonight you offer up family vignettes without thinking about it, because you just want there to be one other person out there who will remember your family, your sister. Stiles stares at you with rapt awe and in return you learn his mother’s name and how she died. You always enjoy your time with Stiles more than you expect to. Despite the darker conversation, you have fun tonight. Near the end of dinner, Stiles tries to shove too many fries into his mouth and when you raise one brow he tries to speak, effectively spewing them across the table. You can’t help the snort, and you pinch your nose as water comes gushing out. He laughs at you. You glare at him. When the bill comes Stiles dives for it, but you get it first. He complains, insists on going dutch, but you insist on not. He doesn’t press the matter - he’s still a teenage boy, and he doesn’t need much to convince him to take a free dinner. You like holding the door open for him as he leaves - you like the way he looks at you, startled, as he mutters something like “glad to see you weren’t _actually_ raised by wolves, after all.”

There was a time when a barb like that would make you _feel_ again, but from Stiles it makes you dig your canines into your cheek, holding a smile at bay as you walk out into the cold night air, following his scent. You hold open the car door for him without thinking about it. As he slips in he really looks at you, cheeks and nose spotted ruddy pink from the whipping wind. You barely hold his gaze for a second before you feel your scowl slide into place. You gesture, hard and fast, for him to sit. When he sees it - your glare or the motion, you don’t know - he looks away and settles into the passenger seat.

On the drive home he commandeers the radio. He doesn’t play what you expect - he tunes it to something 80’s and nostalgic. He shouts along to _Total Eclipse of the Heart_ , and he’s not as off-key of a singer as you’d think he’d be. You smile into the darkness ahead and then look left to switch lanes. _Like a Virgin_ sneaks in at one point, and you can practically smell the embarrassment coming off of him in waves as he flails to change the channel and then enter his façade of cool again. _Under Pressure_ comes through and there’s this strange mutual feeling in the air. Stiles mouths along with the words under his breath; you grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

 

_“Turned away from it all like a blind man_

_Sat on a fence but it don't work_

_Keep coming up with love but it's so slashed and torn_

_Why, why, why?”_

 

When you pull up to Stiles’s house _Love is a Battlefield_ is playing, almost blaring, and you feels like you’re in _Sixteen Candles_ or something; the token bad boy with his leather jacket and dark car. Maybe it’s more _Breakfast Club_ , you think, before you catch yourself. The car has been idling for a long few moments, Stiles staring at his door.

He thanks you for dinner and then looks up at you, sudden and startled like a hare in the dark. You stare back. You raise a brow, “Yes, Stiles?”

“N-” he pauses, steels himself, but then just opens the passenger door and steps out. “Nothing. G’night Derek.”

He closes the door gently, pushes it closed, lingers his hands on the window. He walks away and leaves a handprint on the window.

  


As you pull away, _Time After Time_ comes on. You shake your head and, at a stop sign, pause to breathe.

It feels, strangely, like you’ve forgotten something. You know you haven’t. Still, something is pressing, twisting your stomach into knots. You take a deep breath, smell the leather of your seats and jacket, your own scent, Stiles’s own--

You breathe again. You stop, close your eyes, and listen. Stiles’s heartbeat is startlingly easy to find in the dark, still jack-rabbit-fast. Your eyes shoot open and you whip your head around to look over your shoulder. You can barely see him, opening his window and staring out into the dark.

  
  


You scramble up onto his roof, hear his breathing hasten, _feel_ his heart stutter.

“Derek!”

You climb in, pause for a second by the sill. He stands from his desk chair, socked feet still smelling like the sneakers he’d kicked off at the base of the stairs.

“You, uh,” Stiles scrapes a hand back over his head. “What?”

“Forgot something,” you growl. There’s barely a second where part of your brain wants to shoot you in the face for using a line like that, but the rest of your higher functions are focused on curling Stiles into your arms, pressing your lips to his, and watching his eyes widen in shock. Your mouths sloppily press together, hard and quick as you pull back.

“Uh.” Stiles gapes.

“Sorry,” you hold up your hands. “I couldn’t – That was – I can go—”

“Oh, _Hell no_ ,” Stiles snarls, clamping a hand into your shirt collar and pulling you further in. Something explodes in your stomach, all those knots fraying and snapping and you rise up on your toes and cradle his face and pull him with you - you can’t stay still, can’t stop touching him. He breaks free to breathe and you nibble at his lower lip and kiss his eyes. He laughs - laughs at you, laughs _for_ you - and your head swims.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” He tells you. You clench your fists against his shoulders, look him in the eye.

“What? _Why_?”

“Dude, seriously? Have you met yourself?” As if afraid of sounding too harsh, he kisses you again. Wrong decision. There isn’t space enough for breathing, let alone words. You drink his breath and suck on his tongue until he slacks against you. “Stay with me,” he pants, and a fire kindles where the explosion once was.

“I can’t,” you tell him. “You can’t. No. Wait.” You press against his chest until he stops chasing your mouth with his white teeth and delicious tongue.

He glowers up at you. His lips are redder and wet and full. You know what they feel like against your own. You can taste him, bright and colorful on your tongue. You can smell him, his arousal, his _euphoria_ mixing with your own - you can smell he-and-you, the best thing you’ve ever smelled.

“Slow and steady, Stiles,” you explain, smirking. For all that you want to rut against this boy - press him against a hard surface and _thrust_ \- you want to go slow. You’re not sure you can have someone else touch you without seeing her face at this point. “Please.”

Stiles kisses you again, soft and pliant.

“I’ve waited this long,” he starts, eyes glinting. “But you better make it worth my while.”

You have a moment of weak _I’m not worth anything_ thoughts, but you banish them to smile wickedly.

“Have you met me?” You whisper, brovado, and guide his hand across the planes of your abdomen. Stiles shivers and gives a groan of displeasure.

“Tomorrow?”

“Soon,” you promise. You allow yourself a wolfish glower, let your eyes flicker to red. Stiles’s pupils blow and you’re almost knocked over by the sensation of his arousal. “Don’t make time with anyone else.”

“Oh my _God_ yes.” Stiles exclaims, over-eager. You press your forehead against his and look into his warm eyes, the brown almost black in the night.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” you breathe against his skin. By the time he opens his eyes you’re gone. You drive home way too fast, because you can and because you feel more alive and more reckless than you have in _years_. You had dinner date with Stiles, and you’ve finally figured it out - the puzzle pieces are coming together.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> shit endings are my speciality


End file.
